


The Great Tourney

by DeliriousRose



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-02-29 11:31:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18777421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeliriousRose/pseuds/DeliriousRose
Summary: Lord Walter Whent organises a tourney to celebrate his only daughter 15th's birthday, and with prizes thrice than those offered by Lord Lannister two years before, every lord and knight of Westeros would participate--and one wonders how the young lady's dowry would be. But whispers say that the tourney is just a pretext, for what, no one dares to speak.Prince Rhaegar and his supporters might use the tourney in Harrenhal as an informal Great Council to decide how to deal with his father's madness, but Princess Elia sees it as an opportunity to check on the Westerosi ladies, especially now that the High Septon is warming up at the idea of her husband taking a second wife to ensure the succession.As soon as Lord Rickard Stark hears of the Tourney in Harrenhal, he sees it as THE opportunity to find a Southern match for his daughter Lyanna--if only she could keep her wildness under control long enough for her beauty to enthral a young lord or heir.However, no matter how carefully a plan is planned, there are always some bumps along the way.





	1. King's Landing: Year 280 AC, -6 months

**Author's Note:**

> I'm taking some artistic liberties concerning the general timeline, but I'll try to be as close to the official one as much as possible.

King Aerys glared down at his son like an old eagle pointed its prey. He was older beyond his years, the king, with white matted hair and claw-like nails—the gleam of the rubies on his flame-shaped crown mirrored the one in his eyes. And it was scary, even if Rhaegar tried to see in the man in before him the kind king and the loving father of his childhood—but that man had died long ago in Duskendale.

‘We summoned you half turn of a moon ago,’ the king hissed, his wispy voice sending chills down the prince’s spine.

Rhaegar bowed his head, knowing that the best way to deal with his father was not to displease him. And he was already displeased with him.

‘As I wrote in reply to your first summon, Your Grace—’

‘One more reason for you, that Dornishwoman and her whelp to come here without us sending the Kingsguard.’ He snorted, twisting his gaunt face. ‘As if they could be spared.’

The prince breathed in through his nose, finding inside him the bravery he needed to face his father—the Mad King, as the small folks and petty lords had been calling him. As more and more lords and septons referred to him with hushed whispers. ‘Rhaenys and I could have come without Elia’

A new chill ran down his back at the disgust on the king’s face. A new punch in the stomach, like the first time his little princess had been brought to court, to celebrate her first name’s day. “She stinks of Dorne” were the king’s words. And yes, Rhaenys could look more like a Martell than a Targaryen, but she was still his granddaughter, his own blood.

‘Sometimes We wonder if that whelp needs wildfire to turn into a dragon. We should ask Wisdom Rossart the next time he visit us. Or maybe, it’s the Dornishwoman who should get some’—The sneer of the king’s face stretched over yellowed teeth—'perhaps it’s the only way for her to hatch a dragon.’

There was a twisted sense of comfort in the paleness on the Small Council’s members. The only exception was Lord Tywin—probably he was so disenchanted with the king’s mind, or perhaps he had heard such claims so many times they did not shock him anymore. Rhaegar had no idea which was worse

Grand Maester Picelle cleared his throat, his voice was complacent and mousy. ‘As a last resort, Your Grace? Archmaester Edgerran should arrive anytime soon to personally visit the Princess Elia.’

The glare that the king shoot at him made the Grand Maester cower. ‘He should have inspected her before. Wildfire,’ the king repeated, rolling the word on his tongue like a juicy piece of cake. ‘And if the Dornishwoman and her spew die, by now the Old Blood girls in Volantis should be ready for breeding.’

So that was the reason of the summon. The matter of setting aside Elia, or him taking a second wife. Rhaegar did not love Elia as a husband should love his spouse, but more a friend loved a friend. What was the High Septon’s say in the matter? Had the subject been discussed with him? Probably a little, judging from Lord Tywin’s pinched lips—he had not given up the idea to see his daughter become queen.

‘Then, My Prince, you might set sail to Volantis as soon… as proper,’ Lord Lucerys Velaryon, the Master of Ships, said. He tilted his head ‘Was your journey on the _Red Queen_ comfortable?’

At least, with that question, the Small Council was able to move to other, more urgent matters, like the Kingwood Brotherhood and how to get the realm rid of those outlaws. And soon, Rhaegar’s thoughts drifted away from the Council Room—up to the Queen’s Apartments, to Elia. He sent a silent prayer to the Mother that the journey hadn’t been too taxing for his wife, while Lord Lucerys’ suggestion rang again in his ears. Taking sail to Volantis… Elia would love that, especially after listening to her brother Oberyn’s adventures in Essos. She would love to travel and see those far-away countries—she would have travelled across the known world if not for her health.

Too soon, Rhaegar found himself unable to focus on the topics discussed by the Small Council: he knew it was important, that he had to make his voice heard, curb his father’s idea, but his thoughts went back to Elia, like waves lapping at the shore. Was she fine? Did the travel take a toll on her, even if the sea had been calm and the sail smooth? He was on his feet as soon as the session was declared closed, holding himself in the room barely until his father exited.

‘My prince, a word, if you may,’ Lord Tywin approached him.

Rhaegar gave him an apologetic smile. ‘I beg your pardon, my lord: may it wait an hour?’ One hour, just long enough to check on Elia, to make sure she was fine.

Lord Tywin pinched his lips—he probably knew the reason of his haste and yet… ‘Then, I would be most honoured if you join me down the battlement? I find fishing is a good manner to detach myself from what troubles me,’ he said at last, not fully pleased, with a slight bow of his head.

The prince answered with a similar gesture and hurried to his mother’s chambers, where Elia was resting.

He found his wife sitting by the window, a letter in her hand and an amused smile on her lips. She wasn’t beautiful like Ashara Dayne, but she had the frail daintiness of a wildflower swayed by a storm. And yet, in their years together, Rhaegar had learned how strong she was, just like a wildflower clinging to a rock not to be torn apart by the storm. Rhaegar’s throat tightened, remembering how dry were Elia’s eyes when she had lost their first child, how she had faced the “shame” or giving birth to a premature girl, their little beloved Rhaenys—her stoic acceptance of her moon blood.

Elia lifted her dark eyes on him and smiled; the sunset gave a bloody hue to her black hair. ‘Let me guess: they want you to get another wife,’ she said playfully.

‘You shouldn’t joke about it,’ Rhaegar replied, swallowing the unease of his father’s words. The king was mad to think that wildfire would allow Elia to bear a healthy child–it would kill her, just like it killed Aerion Targaryen so many years before. ‘And anyway, I won’t take a second wife, nor set you aside.’

‘I don't mind being set aside,’ Elia chuckled. ‘As long as you don’t replace me with Cersei Lannister.’

‘If our marriage is annulled, Rhaenys would become a’—He looked away, swallowing the lump in his throat— ‘a bastard. I cannot do that to her.’

‘Yet “three heads has the dragon”.’ Elia’s voice was sharp as Valyrian steel, but her smile sweet and encouraging. ‘The Most Devouts and the High Sparrow can give you permission to take a second wife, and if they don’t… I’m not jealous and a child is a child, no matter which side of the sheet they’re conceived.’ She chuckled again and handed him the letter. ‘Take Oberyn, for example, he tells me the name of his newborn daughter and of his new lover in the same letter. I’ll let you guess who is Ellaria and who Sarella.’

‘This is not Dorne and I won’t bear a bastard.’ He sighed, kneeling at her feet and placing his head on her lap. He closed his eyes, feeling her hands through his hair, picking strands and braiding them. ‘They want Archmaester Edgerran to visit you.’

‘And we know what he’ll find, don’t you?’ Elia whispered, her amusement not completely concealing the trickle of dread in her voice.

‘Did-did you…?’ he couldn’t bring himself to spoke about it openly—he had even refused to be there while Maester Cressen wrote about it in the reply to the first summon.

‘Not yet. Maybe in a fortnight.’

Neither of them spoke; the silence was broken by the calls of the guards on the battlements and the talks of the servants going and coming in the courtyards and the hallways.

‘Where is Rhaenys?’ Rhaegar asked, noticing the unusual tranquillity around them.

Elia’s voice lost her previous playfulness. ‘Ashara took her to the Sept of Baelor to lit candles for the Mother.’

Elia had not bled in four months.

They would have preferred to keep it a secret, at least until it would be safe enough. But then the king had summoned both of them in King’s Landing and they had hoped that the news would be enough to make Aerys’ desist, or at least accept that Rhaegar came alone. The prince sank his face into his wife’s lap, silently praying the Mother to watch over Elia and the life within her—whispering against his wife’s silks the lullaby he had composed during the long hours by Rhaenys’ crib, when no one knew if the little princess would live for another day or pass the night.

Like a rising tide, racket grew in the hallway, exploding into the room when Rhaenys entered with the retinue of ladies and septas who tried to turn her into a perfect princess.

‘Mama! Papa!’ Rhaenys yelled, jumping at her father’s neck. She pulled on his hands, forcing him closer to Lady Ashara Dayne. ‘Wameni Titi Shawa find meow-meow!’

‘You and Aunt Ashara have found a kitty?’ Rhaegar smiled at his daughter, then peered at the bundle in Lady Dayne’s arms, where three tiny kittens, with dirty fur and closed eyes, meowled feebly. ‘They are babies, they need their mama.’

‘Wameni mama meow-meow,’ the little princess replied, puffing out her tiny chest and with determination in her voice.

‘I tried to convince her, my prince, but it was useless,’ Lady Dayne apologised.

‘Do not apology, my dear friend: my daughter is as stubborn as my brother.’ Elia gestured her lady-in-waiting to come closer so that she could see the kittens too. ‘They’re so small!’

One of the septas cleared her throat. ‘I heard that the cook’s cat whelped, my princess.’

Elia smiled, slowly standing up. ‘Then perhaps she could—’

The words died on Elia’s lips.

For a heartbeat, her face was twisted by horror and despair, an expression that too many times had graced her features—an expression they hoped not to see again. Her dry eyes met those of Rhaegar, almost pleading him to forgive her.

‘Mama booboo?’ Rhaenys asked with the innocence of childhood.

Elia forced a smile on her lips, hiding the pain and the sorrow with everything but her dry eyes. ‘Yes, my starling. Mama has a booboo.’


	2. King’s Landing, Year 280, -6 months

Rhaeger had no idea of how Lord Tywin could find fishing a relaxing activity. Standing on that stony beach, waiting for fishes to bite the bite, made him frustrated and feel useless—he might do nothing for Elia while Archmaester Edgerran treated her, but he could give her the comfort of his presence. But the Hand of the King had insisted to have him there, with the excuse of distracting him from his pains–he had not spoken in an hour.

‘My Prince? My Lord?’

The two men turned to the Archmaester, fidgeting atop the stone stairs. Rhaegar reached him with long, agile steps, his throat tightened at the older man’s expression—the Archmaester had no need to utter an apology, the tone of his voice was enough as he explained he had to apply a poultice to help Elia clean her womb. He suggested how many moons to wait before attempting again, to give her body enough time to recover.

Lord Tywin cleared his throat from the respectful distance he had kept himself. ‘Pray, Archmaester, in your opinion, would Princess Elia have been able to… give birth if she had stayed in Dragonstone?’

For a moment, Rhaegar was grateful and at the same time hated the Hand for voicing the question he didn’t dare to express.

Archmaester Edgerran shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘The possibility would have been higher, my lord.’ He paused, bowing to the prince. ‘My suggestion is for Princess Elia not to leave her bed as soon as the… suspicion arises, My Prince. Although…’ he fidgeted with his chain, avoiding the prince’s glance. ‘… although I fear it would be unlikely for her to carry a pregnancy to term: the weakness of her womb does not bide well.’

Rhaegar nodded. Had he been free to do as he pleased, Elia wouldn’t have left Dragonstone.

‘Have you spoken with His Grace, Archmaester?’ Lord Tywin asked, almost out of the blue. The Archmaester shook his head and the Hand leant closer, his voice oddly lower. ‘And have you been informed that the princess had travelled, despite her condition, upon His Grace’s order?’

Archmaester Edgerran’s eyes turned as wide as saucers. ‘Certainly, Maester Cressen had—’

‘We _did_ send a raven,’ Rhaegar replied bitterly. ‘My father sent Ser Darry and Ser Selmy to bring Elia no matter what.’

The archmaester’s shock lasted a heartbeat, then his face settles in an unreadable expression. ‘I shall make His Grace understand that, in the future, the non-respect of his wishes is a necessity under such circumstances.’ He bowed, taking his leave. ‘My Prince. Lord Hand.’

An odd silence settled between the two men, broken by the surf lapping the pebbles and the sudden creak of the fishing rod. Lord Tywin grabbed the rod, pulling with well-measured, curt movements.

‘The babe would still be in its mother’s belly if the king—’

‘He is the king and we can only hope that he listens to our reasons,’ Rhaegar interrupted the older man.

‘But he does not, and that babe is neither the first nor the last to die because of him.’ Lord Tywin caught the fish with one hand, slapping it against a rock before throwing it into a basket. ‘He’d do what he suggested.’

‘I have no idea of what you are talking about.’

Truth was, Rhaegar knew too well. Forcing Elia and Rhaenys to drink wildfire to turn them into dragons. Prince Aerion had believed that and died an awful death. He would not let such fate befall his wife and beloved daughter.

‘Yes, you do. You are thinking about it right now.’ The Hand said, placing a fresh worm on the hook. ‘You care for your wife, and I loved mine. Losing her was… I would have done everything to keep her safe.’

Rhaegar frowned at him. Lord Tywin Lannister seldom spoke of the late Lady Johanna, and only when probed.

With a precise flick of his wrist, the Hand launched the line; he stuck the fishing rod between two rock and looked into the prince's eyes.

‘If you want to keep them safe, if you love your daughter as you claim, you should put Princess Elia aside, send her and the little princess back to Dorne.’ He stepped closer, placing a hand on the prince's shoulder. ‘If you cut all your ties with them, the king will see no use to harm them.’

From a certain point of view, the suggestion made sense. And it was ridiculous, to the point it drew a soft chuckle. ‘And pray, my Lord Hand, on what ground should I demand that my marriage is annulled? Elia is no maid and she gave me a daughter.’

Lord Tywin snorted, a thin-lipped smile stretching on his face. ‘Indeed, only an unconsumed marriage can be annulled. But a _king_ may set a wife apart.’

Rhaegar chuckled again, shaking his head. ‘The day I will succeed my father, I will not have the need to set Elia aside.’

‘But you owe an heir to the throne,’ Lord Tywin insisted. ‘You heard what the archmaester said: it is unlikely that Princess Elie would give you one. And even if she did, could she give you a spare too?’ He shook his head. ‘Nay, and we have to accept the hard truth, my prince.’

Rage started to boil in the prince’s inside. Lord Tywin only had to say his daughter’s name to reveal the true intention behind his word. Rhaegar snorted, lifting his chin.

‘But I am just a prince and, even if I wanted to, I cannot set Elia aside.’

‘Indeed, you are a prince for now. But that could change’—The rage turned into horror and Rhaegar stepped back. Was Lord Tywin Lannister suggesting that they assassinate the king, his father?—‘All you need, is to have all the lords of the Seven Kingdom depose your father and declare that you are the new king. Or make you regent, if you wish. Like it or not, we cannot deny that Kin Aerys is sane of mind. The Mad King, the smallfolk calls him.’

Relief washed over Rhaegar at the suggestion. Indeed, a Great Council could overrule a king’s decision, put him aside—and indeed, his father was no longer fit to reign. However…

‘My father will never call a Great Council.’

‘No he won’t, alas,’ Lord Tywin agreed, turning his attention to the fishing rod. ‘Yet, it doesn’t mean we cannot discuss it.’

‘It would be treason.’

‘It would be treason _if_ and _when_ the king gets wind of it.’ Lord Tywin glanced at him with the corner of his eye. ‘Why do you think I dared to speak of it _here_ , were the only people around are my own guards and too far away to listen?’

Rhaegar wanted to point out Ser Oswell Whent, lazily leaning against the wall and, by the look of it, sharing saucy jokes with the Lannister guard—he was a Kingsguard, vowed to obey and protect the king.

_And he is also one of your closest friends_.

The prince glanced at the white knight, then took his leave from the Hand of the King—besides, it wasn’t a lie that he wished to see his wife.

 

* * *

 

Elia laid on the bed, with a poultice of green clay plastered on her lower belly to help her clean her womb. Her dark eyes followed her husband, as he walked to and fort in the room, unable to rest.

‘Looks like a tarantula bit you,’ she said, dissimulating her concern with a joke.

Rhaegar froze, staring at her. His conversation with Lord Tywin still fresh in his mind even after three whole days.

With Lady Ashara’s help, Elia sat up, staring back at him. ‘Spit it out.’ When her husband didn’t reply, she darted a dirty glare at Ser Oswell. ‘Why he’s mopping like that? If it’s for the babe, it’s not his fault if—’

‘I think it’s because of what Lord Lannister told him, my lady,’ the Kingsguard said.

Elia scoffed. ‘Let me guess. He told him to “set aside that Dornishwoman and marry my “purrfect” daughter”,’ she said in a mockery of the Lord of Casterly Rock that tugged a smile even from Rhaegar.

‘You shouldn’t joke about it,’ the prince reprimanded her.

The princess waved her hand. ‘And what should I do? Cry and brood about it morn and night as you do?’ She shook her head. ‘The Seven didn’t give the energy to waste for such bull—’

‘Elia!’ Rhaegar gasped, even if he knew that, sometimes, Oberyn’s influence resurfaced. He exhaled, running a hand through his hair and turning toward the window, glaring at Viserys training with the master-at-arms in the courtyard below. ‘But you are right about the first part. He did suggest that I put you aside. As the Small Council did.’

‘Better that than what your father suggested,’ Ser Oswell chipped in with a low growl.

Elia lifted an eyebrow, her pale lips unclosing in surprise. ‘And what did my dearest father-in-law say you should do with your Dornish wife?’ she asked with an amused scoff.

It was Ser Oswell who reported the discussion since Rhaegar could not think of it without rage boiling in his bowels. The mirth in Elia’s face melted into horror at the mention of wildfire.

‘Lord Tywin said that, if our marriage is annulled and Rhaenys made a bastard, my father would see no interest in harming any of you,’ Rhaegar whispered, at last, the only addition to Oswell’s words.

‘But the Faith won’t annul your marriage,’ Ashara said, breaking the silence. ‘It was consumed and it has produced a child. And even if Elia won’t give you a son, Viserys would be your heir and _he_ could marry Rhaenys.’

Rhaegar stared down at his brother, his whining rising from the courtyard as he protested against the little page who had dared to take the wooden sword off his hand. He turned around, nudging with the head toward the door in a silent command. At once, Oswell opened it, glanced at both sides of the hallway and closed it, nodding at his prince. Rhaegar sat beside Elia, opposite to Lady Ashara, and gestured the Kingsguard to come closer.

‘I think that the talk about setting my wife aside was only an excuse to introduce the real topic he wished to discuss because only a king could set aside a wife, despite having children,’ the prince breathed, his voice so low the three other people could have dreamt it. He took a deep breath, knowing that what he was about to say could cost them their heads. ‘Lord Tywin suggested calling a Great Council.’

For a moment that stretched into eternity, no one spoke.

‘A Great Council could depose King Aerys, or declare him unfit to rule,’ Ashara said.

‘But he would never call one. He’s too…’ Elia made an eloquent gesture, drawing circles with her forefinger near her temple.

‘One more reason to get him off the throne.’ All gasped, wide eyes staring at Oswell. The Kingsguard’s face darkened. ‘You are not here all the time, you have no idea of the awful things he does.’

‘Oswell! You vowed to keep the king’s secret!’ Rhaegar hissed.

‘And I also vowed to defend the innocents in the Mother’s name!’ the knight retorted. ‘You are not there when he has a man drenched in wildfire. You are not there when goes to your mother’s chambers. Tell me, what honour is in letting a madman burn people to get hard and rape his wife? As I look at it, we of the Kingsguard are already oath breakers!’ Oswell growled, the shame burning his face an awful shade of red. ‘So, let’s be oath breakers to the end and put our conscience at peace.’

‘And how could I do that?’ Rhaegar growled back. ‘A deposition would need to be discussed by all the lords of Westeros; how can I call all of them behind my father back?’

Ashara gasped, straightening her back and clapping her hands, breaking the pensive silence they had fallen into. ‘You don’t have to call it a “Great Council”! What about something else that would draw no suspicion, like a _tourney_?’ she said with a wide grin. ‘Don’t you remember, the last one at Storm’s End? Lord Baratheon’s prizes had attracted many lords.’

Elia snapped her fingers, her eyes bright. ‘And who says lords, says highborn ladies!’

Rhaegar and Oswell exchanged a glance, each silently asking the other what got her.

The princess snorted, folding her arms over her chest. ‘I want to know who you’ll marry after me, Rhaegar.’

The prince gave out a long sigh, scratching his chin. ‘I’m not going to—’

‘“The dragon has three heads”.’ Elia Martell’s stare was grave, her voice as sharp as Valyrian steel—as of steel was her pose, the resolution giving a queenly glow to her otherwise gaunt and pale face. ‘We don’t know if I could ever give you the heir that you–that the Seven Kingdoms—need. And even if I do, how many chances are that the babe survives infancy? That he grows into an adult? And how many chances are they that I survive another childbirth?’ she shook her head, her voice fraying on the edges with unsheathed tears. ‘We must look at reality in the face, no matter how ugly it is: sooner or later, you will need another wife.’

Rhaegar cupped his wife’s cheek, touching her forehead with his, his own voice wet just like hers. ‘You shouldn’t have such grim thoughts, they bid you no good.’

‘Am I at fault for wishing that the woman who will come after me would love Rhaenys as if she was her own?’ the princess retorted, her dry dark eyes fixed on her husband’s ones. ‘Am I at fault for grasping the opportunity to see it with my own eyes? Which means’—The teasing and merriment flashed back on her face, although they didn’t reach her eyes—‘that Cersei “purrfect” Lannister is out of the question: whenever she sees Rhaenys she looks as if a dragon farted in her face. So, let’s organise the biggest tourney ever seen in Westeros: you’ll talk with the lords about what to do with your dearest cuckoo papa, while Rhaenys and I will check their daughters. Of course, if there’s one who catch your eyes, I’ll put her on the top list: if she’s a woman you like, even better,’ Elia conceded in her matter-of-factly tone.

Rhaegar leant against the bed’s headboard and massaged his temple. ‘Although this is a _great_ idea, you’re forgetting that Dragonstone isn’t big enough to host all the nobility of Westeros. Besides, what excuse should we use to justify a tourney?’

‘Who said it had to be in Dragonstone?’ Ashara said, then grinned at Oswell. ‘Say, how old is your niece?’

The Kingsguard frowned in confusion. ‘Mariya? She’ll be sixteen in six months or so.’

‘And she isn’t betrothed yet, isn’t she?’

‘Not that I know of, why are you asking, my lady?’

Ashara’s purple eyes sparkled like amethysts in the sun, her voice filled with excitement. ‘A tourney in Harrenhal to celebrate Lady Mariya Whent’s coming of age.’

‘The main prize? Said maid’s hand like in a song, and the dowry that comes with,’ Elia added, just excited as her lady’s companion.

Ser Oswell cleared his throat and scratched his neck. ‘Listen, it’s a good idea, _but_ —’

‘“But” what?’ the two women interrupted him, both narrowing their eyes.

The Kingsguard stretched his lips in a sheepish smile. ‘But there’s a little problem…’ He rubbed his thumb and forefinger in an eloquent gesture. ‘If you want all the lords to come, you need something better than Mariya’s hand to lure them. At the Tourney of Storm’s End, Lord Baratheon offered forty thousand gold dragons for the joust and the melee—that Robert, he knew he would win that one—and ten thousand dragons for the archery contest. That’s a lot of gold and yet, not _every_ lord of Westeros attended.’  He shook his head. ‘Now, my brother loves to show off how filthy rich he is, but for your plan to succeed, the prizes should be at least three times bigger. And I’m not talking about all the food and drink that suck large gathering would require.’

‘We can contribute,’ Elia said with a decisive tone that didn’t match her frail looks. ‘There’s the revenue from Dragonstone, and my own pocket from Dorne. Moreover, Oberyn has the gold he earned as a sellsword in Essos and she could still ask a loan from the Iron Bank. As long as no one knows that we helped Lord Whent, we shouldn’t have any problem.’

Ser Oswell pinched his lips pensively, throwing a sideglance to his prince. Rhaegar was torn. From one side he saw the goodness of the idea: Harrenhal is the biggest castle in the Seven Kingdoms and the very first Great Council too place right there; moreover, Lord Whent’s generosity was well-known and the Lady Mariya had a liking for songs of courtly love. It was perfect—too perfect and that was what made Rhaegar hesitate to give his consent. But then the scratchy voice of his father echoed in his head, repeating the veiled menaces toward Rhaenys and Elia and the prince’s conscience would not give him peace if he did nothing and the worst happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now the question is: will the Westerosi lords bite the bait or not? 
> 
> Not exactly as I wanted it to be, but I'm not at the best of my shape right now.


End file.
